To Stand Besides You
by Mashpotatoe Queen
Summary: In which Charles is a young mentalist with very little control over his powers, parties are loud with far too many people thinking and judging in them, and Erik is a good friend.


**Hello everyone!**

 **Before you all kill me with flames and fire, I would like to say that I have very, _very_ little knowledge about the X-men universe. Like, my knowledge is _minuscule_. So, please excuse any blatant differences from canon. This story might be completely AU, I hope you can accept that.**

 **Secondly, I would like to say what got me writing this story so entirely unprepared in the first place was this tumblr blog called _The Little Hero AU_ , which is all about and alternate universe in which all the Marvel Characters are kids or young adults (there is also a DC version). The fanart is absolutely AMAZING and the responses to people's questions are hilarious. Anyways, I fell in love with the Erik and Charles of this blog, who are roughly in their twenties- I think- dating, and running the school together. This love inspired this fic, which is about a younger version of the two (13 and 15).**

 **I highly recommend you check out the blog, and I hope you enjoy!**

 **...**

 _Charles Xavier was, even at the young age of thirteen, a charming lad in every sense. He was polite and kind, considerate and fair, and beyond intelligent. He fit the mold that was held in such high regards, was quiet and unseen when unwanted, and positively dazzling when the attention was placed on him. His wavy brown hair surrounded his head like a halo, and his brilliant blue eyes has drawn more than one person's attention._

 _However, there was one thing that made Charles Xavier different, that outshined every ounce of his charm and friendliness, and drowned the option of civility if it ever escaped to the world._

 _Charles Xavier was a mutant. A strong mutant, at that._

 _Now, not too many people knew of his… condition (telepathy, telekinesis, empathy) and he was therefore in the safe zone. And the few people who did know were close enough to him- or apathetic enough to him- that it didn't matter._

 _But, you see, there was a problem with being a strong mutant in a world where mutants were unrespected and shunned; there was no one to go to when you were having some trouble controlling your powers…_

 _Such was the case of Charles Xavier in the middle of a high society party that his parents had arranged..._

Charles couldn't help but wince as yet another high society member gave his hand a ruthless shake. With every second of touch, the pain growing in the back of his head grew stronger and more empowering, drowning out all coherent thoughts. It was loud. So loud, and everyone was chatting and laughing and clinking their glasses together ( _Clink. Clink. Clink._ ), but their thoughts were ranting and raving and judgmental and cruel, completely contradicting their words and actions. But most of all they were _loud- so loud-_ and he couldn't help but feel as if every person in the room was shouting at the top of their voices, or screaming in a long, endless, piercing echo.

(They very well could be in the saftey of their own minds; Charles was far too distracted to properly tell.)

And he felt as if he was at sea, lost amidst the waves of emotions and opinions that scoured the walls of the grand ballroom. He was sinking- _sinking down, down, down_ \- and an anchor was tied to his legs, preventing his every endeavor of trying to reach the surface.

His head was _killing_ him.

The man who was shaking his hand finally let go, and it to every ounce of Charles' willpower to not slump against the nearest wall in relief. The actuality of touching made things much more prominent to his mind, made his powers flair up in spectacular color, heightened every sense and made the world spin in the most dizzying ways, thoughts and feelings of hundreds of people crammed into him as if they could fit. As if it wasn't killing him inside.

 _The woman- her name was Elizabeth James- who was laughing by the punch bowel thought that her companion was a bore._

 _The man- John Adams- who was kissing a pretty young lady in the corner was married. He had three kids. He was just doing it because of her looks._

 _The pretty young lady, Cassandra Josephine, just wanted his wallet._

 _The elderly woman who was dancing with her husband on the dance floor wanted a glass of wine and disliked the 'bumbling buffoons of young men' who were swaying next to them._

 _That boy- Carl James, he was eight and a half- liked cake, but hated the cake being served because it had strawberries in it._

 _That girl- Katie Robinson- wanted to dance, and she felt terribly lonely because of a recent break up._

 _Loneliness. Pain. Anger. Discomfort. Judgments. Comments. Laughter. Sadness, joviality, 'I want this', 'he looks dapper', 'what's Ben's little girl called again?' benevolence, cruelty. Tears-laughter-rage-apathy-lust. Whatsgoingonwhatshappeningtomesoloudtooloud. Confidenthurtregretfulcomfortablehesitantscreaming. Screaming._ Screaming.

 _Screaming. Long and piercing and_ loud _. Never ending, always there. Everyone was screaming, in the safety of their own minds, long and loud and endless. And loud. So loud._

 _AndOhGodsStopPleaseStop._

 _STOP._

It was too much. Too much, all at once, and Charles was having trouble breathing. The air wouldn't get into his lungs, and the pain plaguing him was cracking him open, breaking him a part into a thousand little pieces, which were going to blow away into the wind of emotions and thoughts and feelings. He was going to be washed away and no one was going to notice. He wouldn't even have a chance to scream.

And even if he could, no one would be there to hear him.

But he couldn't let anyone notice. He couldn't let the emotions and panic and pain escape him. If it did, it would project across the whole party, and all those people would be hurting and confused because of him, and he couldn't allow that. He _wouldn't_ allow that.

And his parents would know. They would realize just why every person in the room would suddenly double over and throw up. And they would be disappointed in him, and become cold- well, colder- and distant. And he wouldn't be allowed outside for a while and then Erik would be concerned in his weird overprotective way and he had to control it. _He had to control it._

Charles focused, clenched his fist until his fingers were white, the soft words of Erik echoing through his mind from when he had his last attack.

 _Breathe in. Breathe out._ ("Smile," said his mother, all pearly white teeth and underlying levels of ice, "Why are you grimacing like that?") _Focus. Don't let them get to you._ ("Charles," his father hissed, thin lips bent in a false smile, "straighten your posture. You're making a bad impression.") _Build a wall, and throw each person's thoughts and feelings over it. One at a time. Breath, Charles, you have to breathe. Focus. Control it._

Control it.

 _He couldn't control it._

"Are you alright, m'boy? You look rather clammy…"

Charles blinked. Blinked again. Inhale, exhale. Normal human functions. He swiped a hand against his brow. _Focus_. He looked up, blinked once more. _Focus. Build the wall._ It was Mrs. Doyle, the rich widow who lived next door and used to nanny him when his parents were too busy to care for him, which was often. _Breathe, Charles, you have to breathe._

She was feeling _concern, worry, fear_. Thinking about how ill he looked. Wishing his parents would take better care of him.

And every person was thinking and feeling and judging as well. And he was about to crack. Every wall that was ever built was about to come crashing down and then no one would be safe. It hurt. Everything hurt. And tears of pain were coming to his eyes and there wasn't enough air. And it was loud, _too loud_ , and he needed everyone to stop. To stop thinking. To stop feeling. To stop _everything_. He needed to _breathe_. He needed to control it, but _he couldn't control it._

Charles swallowed. Swallowed again. Turned his eyes to the frail old woman in front of him who was silently screaming inside just like everyone else. Who was screaming loud- _too loud_ \- and _everyone was too loud_.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. _Focus._

And then his view of Mrs. Doyle was blocked from his sight by a large torso, and he could only blink and stare at it, far too out of it to comprehend. Someone was talking- someone familiar- saying that Charles just wasn't feeling very well and that he needed to rest. And then that someone was grabbing his hand, and Charles flinches, hard, because _it's too much, too much, far too much and it needs to stop right now, andpleasebequietbecauseit'stooloudtooloudSTOPplease._

Please.

He jerks back, trying to get away from the contact and the overpowering _concern_ and _worry_ and _anger_ and _protectiveness_ that veiled this person like a second skin. Trying to get away from the tidal wave of emotions and thoughts of feelings that are pushing and shoving against the dam, making cracks appear against the walls. A person is like a conductor. _Touch_ is a conductor. And touch, even a simple touch of two hands, makes everything _more_. Makes everything _too much_.

But even as weakly pulls at his wrist, even as the figure gives far away reassurances- _Why is everything so muted? So far away? Why is everyone_ screaming _?_ \- to , even as something inside of him starts to _snap_ , Charles can't help but internally sigh in relief. Because he knows this figure. Knows this mind. Because over every emotion and thought that Erik was projecting, most of all he resonated _safety_ and _reassurance_ , something of which Charles was in desperate need of.

And then he was being pulled through the crowd at a brisk pace. He could do nothing but follow blindly, every face around him blurry because of the pain-filled tears that screwed with his vision. Every accidental brush of skin sending waves of pain through his tortured head. Every thought and feeling blurring together like currents in the sea, blinding him, calling for him, drowning him alive...

And through it all, Erik's tight grip on his wrist never ceased.

They passed by a group of drunks and Charles almost doubled over and threw up, because the jumbled thoughts of the drunken men in such close proximity added chaotic agony to the messed up sea of emotions. There was no structure or form, just pure, brute feeling and it was _too much_.

Something cracked.

The dam burst, just a little, and Charles felt added misery because his hard earned mental shields were collapsing right in front of him and he could do _nothing_. Hours of meditation and focus, wasted.

He shuddered, hard, and through up another weak temporary shield to try and cover the damage, nearly fainting from the effort. But he obviously wasn't quick enough, because Erik suddenly hissed, his grip tightening on Charles hand as he felt the projection of agony. The touch heightened the bond between telepath and the older mutant, and Charles couldn't help but flinch as the aftershocks of emotions and thoughts him him full force even as Erik growled under his breath over the pain the younger was feeling.

But he didn't let go.

Finally, _finally_ , they escaped the crowded ballroom. Charles couldn't think straight, didn't even recognise the familiar hallways of his own home, far too lost in his torment and suffering, to busy trying to get air down his throat.

Even if he could focus, he wouldn't be able to see; his eyes were far too blurry from tears.

Erik dragged Charles down hall after hall, and then suddenly he stopped. He pulled open a door- the door to his room, Charles absentmindedly realized- and quickly shouldered himself and the younger boy inside.

Behind them, the metallic lock clicked itself shut.

The minute Erik let go of his hand, Charles collapsed, shaking and shuddering and breaths coming far too fast. The emotions and thoughts were farther now, yes, but not far enough. They filled the entire mansion with their chaotic whirlpools, and Charles was in the center of them all, drowning.

Not enough air, pain, so much pain. Too loud, tooloudstoppleasestoptooloudtooloudhurtsithurtsSTOPPLEASESTOPPLEASEHURTSSTOPPLEA-

Just when Charles thought he might collapse, completely fall apart and break into billions and billions of shattered pieces, never to be whole again, something grabbed him and pulled him against someone else's chest tight, shielding him from the world and blacking out everything else.

Erik.

Erik was not one for contact. He did not 'hug'. He did not reciprocate friendly slaps on the back. He did not touch. It was not his thing. And so, if it were any other time but this, Charles would have probably melted into the embrace and teased Erik endlessly for it.

But in the moment Charles felt no joy at all, desperately- weakly- pushing against the older boys chest in futile efforts to get away even as tears of pain streamed down his cheeks. He was far too panicked at the flood of emotions and trains of thought crashing into him at all sides. Far too out of it as wave after wave of pain smashed into him. Drowning, he was drowning, and it hurt, it hurt too much and he needed it to _stop_.

Erik pulled him in tighter.

Charles choked on thin air.

Then the telepath realized through a haze of pain that Erik was speaking. That Erik had that pleading, desperate tone in his voice that he only ever got when he was absolutely terrified.

That Charles should really try to pay attention, if only for Erik's sake.

And so he tried to focus, to push back the encroaching blackness that threatened to take over his vision and the entire ocean of personalities that in no way belonged to him.

"-ave to focus, Chalie. You have to focus on me. Only me. Breathe, Charles, you have to breathe. Please. _Please, breathe_. Focus. You're strong, you can do it…"

He didn't feel like he could, panic and desperation and _not enough air_ lurking in every thought and emotion. He highly doubted he could, with the fragile mental wall crumbling into pieces before his very eyes.

But he had to try.

And so he pressed himself tighter against the older boy's frame, expanded his chest and inhaled a shaky breath. And again, and again, staying focused on Erik, on his soothing accented words and his thoughts of _worry_ and _concern_ and _pride_ and _caring_ and _faith,_ on the feeling of safety that Erik seemed so determined to envelop around him. He focused on Erik, only Erik, and shoved the other overwhelming presences to the back of his mind. Ignored them. He had to ignore them.

And then, slowly, carefully, shuddering and shaking and streams of tears wetting his face from overexertion, Charles started to build up the wall again.

He would place a brick, and then another. Brick after brick, he built it up, making a barrier between his mind and the world outside.

It took hours, hours of suffering and exhaustion and concentration and pain, and through it all the two mutants sat together in the center of the too big room while the partygoers partied on, few even stopping to ponder the disappearance of the brilliant blue-eyed boy with wavy brown hair. Through it all, Erik muttered soft words of encouragement and comfort, and through it all the feverish boy in his arms stayed still, brows furrowed in concentration and pain, tense in every muscle of his exhausted body.

And then it was done, and the wall was built. Not very high, and not very strong, but it was built. And that was enough. With a great shuddering heave, Charles finally opened his eyes and blinked blearily upwards, watching as Erik smiled- a mere quirk of the lips- in relief.

Charles smiled back, watery and weak and only half there, but a smile nonetheless. He let loose a laugh, choked and small, and then promptly collapsed.

If Erik had not been expecting it, he might have been more worried.

As it was, he sighed and stood, bending down and scooping up the younger's far smaller frame. Then, with practised ease- and wasn't _that_ sad?- he carried the thirteen year old to bed and tucked him in.

Originally, Erik wasn't even going to go to the party, preferring to avoid the required social interaction and the stares that were bound to turn on him if he did arrive. But the pleading, almost desperate look in the younger boy's eyes had pried on the fifteen year old's mind until he eventually caved in, throwing on his nicest collared shirt and heading over.

Once he had arrived, he spent several ages convincing the gate guard that he was, in fact, invited. After that, he spent several more ages searching through the hundreds of people for his younger friend.

And when he finally found him, shaking and sweating and far too pale to ever be healthy, Erik had never been so glad that Charles had mastered the puppy dog eye look so thoroughly.

He hated it though, that Charles locked himself up like he did. That the younger boy felt it necessary to suppress his powers in order to protect the humans that surrounded them. Hated that he got hurt. Every. Single. Time.

Charles shuddered, frowned, and shifted in his sleep, bringing Erik's attention back to the present. Quietly, the older boy hushed the younger and pressed a hand to the sweaty forehead, eyes trailing the tear tracks that trickled down the telepaths' face.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that someone as kind and sweet as Charles should be put through so much pain.

The kid- because, really, that was what Charles' was, a kid- whimpered in his sleep, brows furrowing in that way that meant he was in pain. Erik sighed, long and hard, and reached out to grab the younger's hand, giving it a quick squeeze before releasing it.

He should go. He should really, really go. It wasn't his place to stay and it wasn't his responsibility. He should go.

But then what? If he left, who would take care of Charles? His _parents_? Those people hadn't a clue as to what to do with a mutant as a son, and in all honesty probably haven't even realized that their own kid was missing yet.

Probably wouldn't care even if they did realize.

And so, instead of walking out the door and out of the cursed mansion that Charles still regarded fondly despite the torture he experienced there, he dragged over the comfy armchair that usually acted as Charles' official 'reading chair' and plopped himself down, preparing himself for a long night.

And in the morning, when Erik woke up to someone tugging at his wrist and bleary blue eyes staring up at him, he would be unable to suppress a smile.

And Charles wouldn't be perfect, he'd still spend several more hours properly building up the fragile mental walls and be fighting a minor fever. He would still have to deal with the excuses that some people might call his parents when they came knocking, demanding explanations for his behavior the night previous. He would still have to deal with a hundred more parties and a hundred more breakdowns before his walls became strong enough to hold back the waves that lashed at them.

But Erik would be sitting besides him as he meditated and would give him the proper medication for his fever. Erik would stand behind him as his parents scolded him and would glare until their voices eventually petered off and they walked out of the room. And Erik would be there for every breakdown, every time, until he would be able to stand the storm on his own, and even then Erik would be there, standing besides him.

And to Charles, that had always been enough.

 **...**

 **And that's it! I hope everyone liked it and I would love to hear your thoughts and advice upon it. If you see anything that might make it more canon, give me a shout and I'll see what I can do about it!**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **\- The Mashpotatoe Queen**


End file.
